A Wayward Lad
by Rose Eclipse
Summary: The mishaps and misadventures of a boy who would one day become Jack Frost. An origin story.


"Slow down, Jack! I can't run as fast as you!"

Eight years old and still small for his age, James Fuerst scrambled over a dead log and continued to follow in his older brother's footsteps. The boy was huffing and puffing to keep up with the lanky lad. But when you are a teenager and have have tightly-wound coils of energy in every fiber of your body, it's hard to slow down.

Jack Fuerst heard James' feet crunching noisily through a patch of dead leaves and he quickly put a finger to his lips. "Shh! Don't give us away just yet. Don't you want to see the Indians?"

"Yes, but—" James stopped and wheezed for a moment. "We've been walking forever!"

Jack grinned at his brother and pointed to a clearing in the trees. Overcome with excitement, the boys stumbled clumsily out of the forest and into the clearing. There, across a grassy field, were the wigwams. James just gaped in awe. Jack smirked and folded his arms over his chest.

"What did I tell you? Daniel and Thomas Kent will _never_ believe how brave we were."

"Nor will Father. He said to stay back at the cabin," James protested.

Jack shrugged his shoulders. "You followed me."

"Because Mother and Katherine are still sick in bed!" James cried out.

A twig snapped sharply behind them. Both boys yelped and James nearly pounced into his brother's arms. Finally they had the courage to turn around and face the person who had been watching them the last five minutes. It was one of _them_. Tawny-skinned and armed with arrows, his intimidating presence silenced them for the moment.

Jack remembered the name that his father had spoken at home. He said in the Indian language they were called "The People" but the strange word hung on the tip of his tongue.

"Lenape," he said softly. The man must have heard him because he nodded and motioned for the boys to follow him to the very edge of the village of wigwams.

There was their father, Edward Fuerst, in the middle of a trade with another Indian. A pile of animal skins lay on the ground between them. Edward looked up from the transaction to see his sheepish sons being marched forth and immediately, creases formed upon his brow.

The Indian he had been discussing the trade with was also eyeing the boys with keen interest. The word "cinnamon" had yet to come to their land so there was no other word to describe the warm spicy color of the boys' hair. Their big brown eyes, innocent as a doe and lively as a deer, gaped up at the Indian in wonder.

James was fascinated and a bit frightened. He dodged behind Jack to avoid the man's stare. But Jack looked up at him without a trace of fear or suspicion.

Jack could see why his father had dubbed this one, "Little Hill". He was tall as Father but nearly twice as broad in the chest. His shoulders were rounded, his eyes deep and black as night, and his ebony hair twisted in thick spirals around his shoulders. Two gray feathers were caught in his hair. He wore the deerskin leggings and moccasins of the Lenape tribe. A mantle of gray fur was wrapped around his shoulders for warmth.

Little Hill met Jack's stare for a moment before addressing Edward. "Yours?"

Edward Fuerst nodded. "Aye, my boon and my bane. One who is a little foolish and one who is very foolish." He glanced at Jack. "Where is your cloak?" he demanded.

"It's keeping Katherine warm while she's in bed," the boy answered. "But don't worry, Father. I run fast enough to stay warm. The cold doesn't bother me at all." His smile was like a flickering candle.

His father was still frowning and tugging on his copper-colored beard. "I told you boys to stay home and take care of your ailing mother and sister. What gave you the notion to go scampering off into the woods and leave them alone?"

"But they're not alone," James piped up. "Margaret Dutch is stoking the fire."

"And we came for medicine," Jack added.

"We _have_ a doctor in town," his father said.

"I know but…" Jack looked up at Little Hill. "I think they can help us too."

Edward and James watched Jack approach Little Hill, his hands outstretched in a gesture of goodwill. "Our mother and sister have had a fever for three days. Please, will you give us something to make them better?"

For the moment, Little Hill said nothing. Then he lowered himself, onto his knees, until he could see Jack face-to-face. Again, the same frank clarity in his face; like looking into a pool of clear water. He laid a hand upon the boy's chest and felt the heart beating sturdily beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. Jack stood there, bemused at the Indian's inspection of him, but did not flinch.

Finally, Little Hill removed his hand and stood up. He faced Edward Fuerst. "Foolish, he may be. But he has a strong heart. Wait here." He disappeared into the wigwam and came out again in a few minutes with a small bundle of what looked like dried twigs. James felt a twinge of disappointment.

Little Hill placed the twigs into Jack's hands. "Willow bark. Put into hot water and make them drink it. The fever will go down."

Jack looked up and his eyes shined brightly. "Thank you," he said in a tone that was warm with gratitude. Then he bowed as if serving a duke.

Edward grunted and heaved the animal skins over his shoulder. "Come on, you two. Time to head home before Margaret Dutch boxes your ears."

The boys waved their thanks to Little Hill and followed their father out of the camp, through the woods, and back home.

"Don't tell anyone about this," Edward cautioned his sons.

"Why not? They don't look dangerous," Jack protested.

"'Tis not the Indians I worry about. The woods are vast and untamed, lads. There's no light in them and a man could fall and hurt himself when wandering miles from home. Not to mention the wolves who live in the dark."

"And I hate the dark," James added with a shudder.

"They're not afraid of it, are they?"

"Hmmm; I don't know," Edward grunted.

Relationships with the Lenape Indians were cool at best and Burgess children were told never to go near them. But Edward Fuerst knew you'd have to be a fool not to be on good terms with the natives. They could trap any animal in the forest and fight off starvation in the winter. That reason alone forced him to set aside any personal suspicions and go meet with Little Hill every month. He hoped that they could keep up the trade even after this little skirmish with his sons.

Edward cast a look at his firstborn son. Christened John at birth but called "Jack" to everyone, he was certainly a handful of, well, _everything_. Mischief and lively, one could never anticipate where Jack would turn up: in a tree, in a corner of the barn, behind the town well and waiting to yell "BOO!" when you came to draw water.

At least he hadn't left James behind. Edward felt better when his two younger ones were with Jack; his presence always soothed their problems and when he put his mind to it, he was one of the cleverest boys of Burgess.

"If only he could apply the same attention to his studies," Edward mused to himself.

"Father?"

James was tugging on his sleeve. Edward rubbed his head affectionately, and then dropped his goods to rub Jack's head as well.

"Now that's enough. Run inside boys, and heat up water for those herbs as fast as you can."

"Yes Father!" Two boys scampered fast as rabbits towards their house.

A-A-A

"No!"

"Yes."

The other Burgess boys were too excited to do their lessons when they heard that Jack had entered the Lenape village. Now they swarmed all over him with plenty of questions while Jack gloated over being the center of so much attention.

"Did he wear a necklace out of teeth?"

"Were there many women with them?"

"Were you able to watch them practice magic and sorcery?"

One by one, Jack answered their questions, feeling quite proud and a bit cocky for his boldness. All of the boys listened enraptured, except for one. Thomas Kent was a big puffy fellow who disliked Jack and always tried to put him down.

"Since you like being with savages so much maybe you should go live with them," Thomas sneered. "Or with the wolves. I've heard they howl at the moon too."

Jack's ears burned red from the comment. Had James told Thomas his secret? No! James wouldn't do that. Jack tried to shrug off the comment and lifted a book to his face. But the damage was already done.

"What do you mean 'howl at the moon too'?" one boy asked Thomas.

"Didn't you know?" he smirked, thrusting his chest out as far as it would go. "Jack Fuerst talks to the moon. He says it tells him things."

"Ooooooh." The boys whispered among themselves in suspicion. Indians were one thing; celestial powers were another. Jack just gritted his teeth and seethed in his fury.

"He's mad, I tell you. He practices black magic and can turn into a wolf." Thomas threw his head back. "Aroooo!", he crowed out.

"I do not!" Jack snapped, throwing down his book. "You take it back, Thomas Kent."

"Or what? Your little Indian friends will scalp me?" Thomas's laugh was like a donkey braying. "I know! Why don't you ask your friend the moon for help?"

Jack marched right up to Thomas and punched him in the nose.

A-A-A

"_Those lovely hours, that with gentle work did frame_

_The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell_

_Will play the tyrants to the very same_

_And that unfair which fairly doth excel."_

-Shakespeare, Sonnet V

A-A-A

"What on earth am I going to do with you, John?"

Reverend Smith looked across his desk to the red-faced boy who was digging his toe into the floor. He had intended to have a neat and orderly class of boys to teach but ended up being forced to separate Thomas and Jack before they tore each other to pieces. Thomas had a bloodied nose and Jack's shirt was torn.

Now he had called the boy in for a private meeting.

On other occasions, Jack would have anticipated being in the reverend's study. It was an extraordinary place filled with fascinating things to look at: a handmade clock from England, books with pictures of plants and animals from far-off countries, and a globe of the world on his desk. But now the reverend gave him a cool hard stare.

A list of Jack Fuerst's calamities ran through his mind.

Like the time the boy had climbed onto the roof of the buttery house and spent the day there eating apples and dropping the cores on unassuming pedestrians in the street.

Or the time he put a bonnet and sheet on one of the sheep and release it bleating into the streets, causing hysterical mothers to think it was a demon from hell.

Or the unforgettable Sunday when he had smuggled three kittens into church by hiding them in his shirt to keep them warm. The sermon had been interrupted by the sound of constant mewling until three balls of fur tumbled out of Jack's shirt and scampered down the aisle, much to the shrieking delights of other children.

Despite the list of demerits, Jack remained such a lively frank boy that Reverend Smith found it difficult to punish him. Mischief-making was his calling; he was not selfish or cruel. He was sure that what young master Fuerst needed the most was a guiding hand to lead him into the light. That was why Reverend Smith had decided to spare the rod and instead, given Jack several short but firm lectures on the vices of bad behavior.

But now Jack had stooped to violence. He had shed blood, a cruel and wicked crime. The reverend could not believe that Jack possessed such hatred within him—no, he _would_ not believe it. There had to be some way of reaching the boy.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" the reverend demanded.

Jack hung his head low and shrugged his shoulders. "They started it."

"That does not justify your actions. It is an evil thing to deliver a blow on your fellow man. Does your conscience not tell you that, John? Have you no shame?"

The boy tried to say something but the words got stuck in his throat. "I cannot help it. They hate me and know I'll never change," he finally chocked out.

The reverend's good patient heart melted when he saw Jack's remorse. Of course he was sorry; he just didn't know how to get onto the right path.

"Oh no dear boy," he insisted. The reverend rose from his desk, crossed the room, and placed his hands on Jack's shoulders.

"No man is ever beyond redemption. _Ever_!" He shook Jack by the shoulders to confirm it. "You may do some bad things but you are _not_ a wicked person. There is still hope for you yet. Don't you want to grow up to become a fine young man?"

Jack nodded. "But it is so hard to be good sometimes," he added with a hint of frustration in his voice.

"Hmmmm..." The reverend tapped his fingers together for a moment. Then he had an idea. He took a book from his shelves and motioned for Jack to approach the desk.

"Do you know how pearls are created, John?"

He shook his head. The reverend thumbed through the book until he found a specific page and then pointed for Jack to see.

"It starts when a grain of sand, barely big enough to see, comes into an oyster. Then the oyster builds layers and layers around the sand until it becomes a moon-dropped pearl."

The reverend snapped the book shut. "If you work on improving yourself then little by little, day by day, you'll become as radiant as one of those gems. How does that sound to you?"

Jack sucked on the inside of his cheek for a moment. "I'd prefer to be like a diamond," he announced frankly. "They're said to be much stronger than pearls and they sparkle so brightly like freshly-fallen snow."

The reverend could not resist a laugh at the answer. Cheeky boy! Only Jack Fuerst could spin a catechism on itself.

He wiped his eyes and closed the book. "Well said, John. Diamonds are indeed precious stones that require much polishing and cutting before their true radiance shines through. But if you apply the same tactics to yourself then they should work for you."

"Really?"

"Indeed." He was glad to have gotten through to Jack. "When you learn to conquer fear and anger then your soul will shine brighter than any diamond on earth."

"But I'm not scared of anything," Jack protested.

"I think you are," the reverend pointed out quietly. "And that's why you lash out at the others when they tease you. You're afraid of being different than them. Or perhaps you do foolish things to bring attention to yourself because you are afraid of being forgotten.

"There is nothing wrong with wanted to belong somewhere," he went on. "But why be a troublemaker to prove it? You have your good points, John. Use them instead. Remember that you are a human being with free choice and the will to decide between right and wrong."

He turned around to place the book back in its proper place on the shelf. When the reverend turned back to face his desk again, Jack had not only slipped out the door, but taken three apple dumplings from a plate on the desk.

The reverend sighed deeply and removed his glasses from his face. "Cheeky indeed," he said as he polished his spectacles. But he felt the corners of his mouth still tugging up in a smile.

"_Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow."_

-Isaiah, 1:18

A-A-A

Jack was about to bite into his apple dumpling when he saw Thomas' mother, Eliza Kent, walking down the street. Her sister Matilda was with her. There was no time to run away or hide so Jack was forced to watch both ladies eye him as if he was a mouse they had found in the kitchen.

"There he is, sister. The vicious little brat who thrashed my dear boy," said Mrs. Kent. "Did you ever see such a wicked child?" she asked Matilda in a not-so-quiet voice.

Matilda gave Jack a nasty look. "No indeed, sister. He must be the wickedest boy on earth." They picked up their skirts and marched off with their noses pointed high in the air.

Jack instantly seized a handful of mud from the road. He was ready to throw it onto their newly-ironed petticoats when he heard, or felt, a soft whisper of a breeze on his shoulder.

_Don't._

The gentle plea was cool but strong. Jack looked up and saw the moon, a faint white half-disc, watching him from the watery blue sky. He knew only he could hear it. And suddenly, the hot rush of hatred within him was dying down, replacing it with warmth and coolness at the same time.

He dropped the mudball.

Jack looked down at his dirty hand and realized that it wouldn't help him at all to punish Eliza Kent. But her words still smarted.

At least he hadn't lobbed the mud at the back of her head.

A-A-A

"_O magic sleep! O comfortable bird,_

_That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind_

_Till it is hush'd and smooth! _

_Oh confined restraint! Imprisoned liberty!"_

-To Hope by John Keats

A-A-A

Jack entered the house quietly and tiptoed over to the trundle bed where little Katherine lay curled up into a ball underneath a pile of blankets. Her cheeks were flushed and her breath came out wheezing rasps. It nearly broke his heart to see her so still.

"Katherine?"

Her eyes flickered half-open at him. "Jack." She was interrupted by a fit of wet coughs.

"Hello," he smiled at her. Jack pulled out a dumpling from his pocket. "I brought you something good to eat. He motioned to her mouth but Katherine just turned her head away.

"I'm not hungry," her tiny voice came out in a whisper.

"But you must eat something!" he protested. Katherine groaned in response.

Jack noticed some leftover willow bark twigs on the table. He quickly stoked the fire and added the herbs to a kettle of hot water. Then he filled a cup with the mixture and brought it to Katherine's side along with a spoon.

"Take your medicine, Katherine. It'll make you strong again," he assured her. Katherine reluctantly tried to sip a bit of the willow bark tea but she sputtered on the first taste.

"It's so bitter," she cried out.

"I know but it is the only thing that can..." A thought sparked in Jack's mind. "It's full of magic," he added brightly.

A glimmer of light appeared in her eyes, the first time in three days. "Really, Jack? Are you just teasing me again?"

"I'm not, I swear it. James and I went to the Indians and they gave this to us. It's good magic, strong magic. They grow it out of the earth. But it only works when it's inside of you."

With enough coaxing and imagination, spoonful by spoonful, Jack managed to get Katherine to swallow her medicine. She finally dosed off while Jack sat beside her and listened to the sound of her soft even breathing.

For a few minutes there was silence in the little wooden cabin, save for the sound of branches tapping on the window panes and the cracking sound of logs in the fireplace. Katherine's soft even breathing assured Jack that all would be well. He rocked back and forth in his seat until a man's voice broke the boy's train of thoughts.

"Jack?"

His father was standing in the doorway and his face was overcast like a storm cloud.

"I heard that you struck Thomas Kent in school today," he announced. The stern tone of his father, so different from his usual voice, scared Jack. But he got to his feet and nodded.

Edward Fuerst motioned for Jack to follow him outside. They went beyond the cabin towards the creek where Jack, Katherine, and James went fishing in the summer. Jack watched his father cut a long branch from a tree with his pocket knife.

"Did Reverend Smith gave you a sermon?" he demanded.

Jack nodded. "I know I did wrong. It won't happen again."

His father shook his head. "Strange thing about promises, Jack, is that they can always be broken. I will not have the people of this town saying that I did nothing to raise my son right." He motioned for Jack to bend over.

The boy's eyes widened in horror. His father had never thrashed him before!

"But Father, I promise I'll try to be good from now on. I will!" he cried out.

"I know you will. But that doesn't wipe away the error of your past. Bend over."

Jack's lower lip began to tremble. "F-Father—" he stammered.

"I said bend over," Edward commanded in a tone that Jack did not dare disobey.

Meekly, the boy did as he was told. He tried to keep his eyes upon the moon and focus on something nice for a change.

_WHIP!_

The branch sliced through the air, smacking the seat of Jack's pants. For a moment he felt nothing. Then the sting kicked in like a line of fire into his skin. Nothing calm or sweet could take Jack's mind off the punishment he was enduring; he would have to bear it all beneath the moon's steadfast gaze.

_WHIP! WHIP! WHIP!_

Ten times the switch hit him, ten strips of heat and shame. Jack bit his lip, kept his face tilted up so that no tears would betray him. And then at last, it was over.

Jack looked up at his father and could hold back the bitterness no more. Hot thick waves of shame brimmed up in his eyes and when he blinked, two shining drops trickled down his face. His mark of remorse, exposed for all to see, was as clear as the sun in the sky.

Was his father pained as well? But Edward Fuerst never cried! Yet lo and behold, Jack could not help but notice the faint glimmer of moisture that had surfaced in his father's eyes. But then Edward quickly wiped his hand across his face and the verge of tears were gone as soon as quickly as they had began. His expression was replaced by his usual firm but good-natured countenance.

He rested a hand on Jack's shoulder. "All right?"

The boy took a deep breath. He had survived the ordeal and felt his tears wash away the bad feelings that had bothered him all afternoon. He felt stronger and better for accepting retribution with dignity and for taking it like a man. He nodded to his father.

Edward took the branch, snapped it over his knee, and threw it into the bushes.

"May I never have to use it again," he said. "And Jack, not a word of this to your mother. She's had her hands full getting over the sickness."

The boy's face lit up "Mother is better?"

Edward nodded. "Aye. Those Indian plants helped and her fever broke this afternoon."

Full of relief and joy, Jack ran back into the house. Mary Fuerst was not in bed but sitting up in her rocking chair knitting. A blanket covered her lap and knees.

"Mother!" Jack ran towards her and threw his arms around her neck. "You're better!"

"Of course I am, dear boy," she soothed him gently. "All thanks to you and James."

He kissed her cheek gratefully. Her skin had lost its rosy glow from the fever but at least it was cool to the touch. Yes, the fever was gone.

"Now that's enough of that. Tend to the stew and tell James to wash up for supper."

Jack scampered off to do as he was told. And half an hour later when he took his seat at the table, he was very careful to be mindful of his still-sore bottom. He looked around the table as his father, mother, and brother (Katherine was still dozing in her bed) and felt a sense of belonging, of purpose, and of happiness.

He loved his family more than life itself and would do anything to look after them.

A-A-A

It was the witching hour in Burgess.

Jack opened his eyes and saw only pitch black in front of him. This was the time of night when nothing stirred. The embers in the fire had died out long ago. Not a wind whistled around the house, not a creak in the floorboards broke the silence. From the next room, his father had ceased to snore. It was a silence so quiet that you could feel something else stirring, the _something_ that you wouldn't have paid attention to in the daytime.

He shuddered and pulled the covers up to his chin.

"Jack, are you awake?" whimpered James' voice in the darkness.

"Yes," he whispered back.

He felt James' sweaty hand scramble for his in the darkness. James caught hold and squeezed Jack's hand tight. He could feel his own heart thumping noisily inside his chest.

"Jack?

Katherine was up too. He heard her small feet pitter-patter on the floor and then she climbed into the boys' bed, nearly squishing their faces with her hands and feet. There was Katherine's sweaty hand too—but it was cool. Good, her fever was going down at last.

"I had a horrible dream about a vampire," James shuddered. "Thomas told me about them. They suck your blood out."

Katherine gave a tiny shriek. "I couldn't sleep either."

"There's no such thing as vampires, James. Thomas just says that to pull your leg," Jack assured him.

"Tell us a story, Jack."

"Yes! Yes! A story!" Katherine pleaded. She bounced up and down on her brother's bed.

Jack thought about his last dream. He was flying far away, to a land that was so hot you could cut the air with a sword. Spices and strange words flitted in front of him. He was sure the moon had given him the dream and decided to share it with his brothers and sisters.

"This is the tale of a prince who lived in India, the maharajah," he began.

"The Ma-ha-ra-jah," both children repeated.

"Yes, and he lived in a great golden city over the mountains. Now one day the Maharajah and his best friend decided to go deep into the jungle and find the great white elephant. But on the way they were stopped by a flock of flying birds with bright beautiful wings in shades of pink and green. The flying birds protected their city from the..."

By the time dawn's rosy finger came over Burgess the next day, three siblings were piled up onto the bed, fast asleep and flying freely away from the darkness.

A-A-A

There were still skirmishes for time to time. Jack still climbed up trees and got tears in his trousers. He was caught drawing pictures when he should have been practicing letters.

But if his manners weren't impeccable then at least he restrained himself in public and there were no more talks of brawls.

Reverend Smith prided himself upon appealing to Jack's better nature and Edward Fuerst prided himself for exercising parental control over his son. Both took credit for the boy's improvements but neither was aware of a third party responsible for the change.

A life of perfect obedience and discipline would have bored Jack to death. He needed an outlet to channel his pent-up energy and he found it in the Lenape Indians. Two or three times a week, Jack would slip out of Burgess and run to their village. He was very careful to go only when he would least likely be noticed missing and return with enough time for an alibi. There was no more boasting to the other boys about his adventures; Jack kept his lips sealed this time. He went to the Indians for himself and for no other reason.

Jack was not invited into the wigwams and he never asked. As long as he didn't chatter excessively then Little Hill didn't mind his company. For Jack, it was sufficient just to sit on the ground outside and watch the Lenape man mend a tool or prepared some animal skins. Sometimes he watched the other men returning from the forest with their game or studied the different women who tended to their children and cooked food.

Little Hill would watch Jack as well. Cool weather meant the moon was becoming more visible in the autumn sky. In clear daylight Jack would find a flicker of white against the sky and gaze at it with keen interest.

The Lenape pay attention to the moon. It waxes and wanes, telling them when everything has its time: to plant in the warm weather, to tap the sap from trees, and to fish in the river. It guides their way of life and provides structure and balance to the seasons. Little Hill wondered if the boy also gained guidance from the moon.

"It calls to me," Jack confessed to Little Hill. "Only when I'm calm inside. If I'm feeling very angry or scared then I don't hear anything."

Little Hill chose his words carefully before speaking. "Did the moon tell you to come to us when your mother and sister were ill?" he asked.

Jack nodded. His eyes told Little Hill that he spoke the truth.

"How does the moon call you?"

"I can't explain. It's just something that I hear." Jack tapped his fingers against his chest. "It's like a little light inside of me that guides me."

At first Little Hill suspected that Jack visited their village because he found the Lenape to be exciting and different. But gradually he came to realize the contrary was true: Jack was a kindred spirit. He was an extraordinary person, this boy who carried his soul in his eyes and seemed to run and leap rather than walk everywhere. Jack lived in an aura of wonder and hope, always anticipating the future, constantly in a state of curiosity.

Little Hill even imagined bringing the boy into their village and making him one of their own; dress him in their deerskin garments and teach him the ways of the Lenape—but no, it would never work. It would not be permitted. He dismissed the thought from his mind.

"What's wrong?"

Jack noticed the flicker of a frown on Little Hill's face. But the man brushed it off quickly with a wave of his hand and handed the boy a bowl of stew. Jack devoured the mess of deer meat, beans, and corn with the speed of a hungry bear. Goodness knows where his body put the food because he could consume as much as a grown man and was still thin as a reed.

"What's this?"

"Succotash," said Little Hill.

"Succotash." Jack liked the way the word rolled around in his mouth. It was almost as much fun to say as it was to eat.

Little Hill rose to his feet and picked up his harpoon, which had been made from the antler of a deer. "Come with me."

"Where?"

"Fishing."

Jack dropped the bowl. "Oh boy!"

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and followed Little Hill into the woods where the river babbled at the bottom of the valley. When they bent over, Jack could see the fish gleaming in silvery strips that wiggled over the brown river stones.

"Wow!" No sooner had he blurted the word out then the fish quivered and sped away. Little Hill shook his head.

"Be quiet. Like when you listen to the moon. Now listen to the river."

Jack scrunched up his nose and tried to be still. But his body still quivered with anticipation, even when Little Hill was silent and still as a stone. The man's hard arm struck into the river and out came a shining sturgeon that flashed and glittered in the sunlight. Little Hill threw it down upon the riverbank and Jack watched it squirm for a moment.

Jack was allowed to try next and he even took off his shoes and waded into the water so he could get closer to the fish. The pebbles lightly tickled his feet but he didn't dare laugh with Little Hill watching him. He waited, and waited, and waited some more. Water flowed around his ankles, through his toes, and even made soft burbling sounds in his ears. Gradually, Jack could hear the song of the river and let his thoughts flow with it, babbling and gushing, downstream.

Just when he was about to slip into a day dream, a fat sturgeon lazily swamp up towards Jack. His attention kicked in and immediately he thrust the spear downward.

"I got it! I got it!" he yelped aloud, sending all of the other fish scattering away. Little Hill folded his hands over his chest and nodded in silent approval. Then he helped Jack to gut the fish and prepare it to be cooked.

"This one is for listening to the river," he said. And adding his own fish to the pile he added, "And this one is for listening to a teacher."

A-A-A

"_Should Disappointment, parent of Despair,_

_Strive for her son to seize my careless heart_

_When, like a cloud, he sits upon air,_

_Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart;_

_Chase him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright,_

_And frighten him, as the morning frightens night."_

-To Hope, John Keats

Some of the folks in Burgess protested the get-together of feasting and storytelling on All Hallows Eve. But others knew it would be one of the last chances for the children to get all of their energy out before being cooped up in their homes during the long winter nights. Reverend Smith wisely sided with the latter.

"After all," he assured the parents. "What could be more harmless than a night of pleasant company and social recreation?"

All Hallows Eve! This was almost as good as Christmas to Jack. He arrived at the Town Hall just as his mother was putting out a corn pudding on the main table. Jack knew he was hungry again when his stomach rumbled at the sight of so many pies, puddings, and cakes.

"And where did you get this?" Mary asked her son when he gave her the fish. Catching sturgeon was not an easy feat.

"I got lucky," he told her. Mary would have pressed Jack further but everyone in town was coming into the Hall and there was work to be done. Women sat in one corner of the enormous room and chatted while they darned socks or knit scarves. Men sat near the roaring fireplace, smoking their pipes and talking about crops and raising animals.

The children took to the center and once everyone had feasted upon pumpkin puddings and meat stews, turned to playing games and telling stories. Jack was about to do a cartwheel for Katherine when he saw, or rather heard, Thomas Kent causing a ruckus.

The boy had tied a red cloth around his neck and was terrorizing several smaller children. "Raaaar!" roared Thomas. "I'm going to suck your soul out!"

Several plates crashed to the floor and a chair was knocked over.A few children began crying. James looked like he might vomit or wet himself. Jack looked around him and realized that he did not want to be like Thomas at all. There were better ways of getting attention than intimidating people smaller than you.

He raised his voice to get their attention. "Have I ever told you the tale of how Saint Nicholas came to be?" he asked James in a loud voice.

"It's not Christmas yet, you ass!" Thomas hollered.

Jack decided to ignore him and went on. "You all know that Saint Nicholas watches over you and brings you toys if you are good, right?"

James sniffed and nodded. So did several other small heads. Feeling them warming up to him gave Jack the gumption he needed. He set the overturned chair right up and sat down in it, ushering the children to come around him.

"That's only part of his story," he began. "But long before he was a patron of Christmas, Saint Nicholas was actually a bandit named North."

"A bandit!" James gasped. "Really?"

"Yes, really. And not just any land pirate. He was one of the wildest and most dangerous hooligans in the world! Why, he once defeated an entire regiment with his steak knife while he was eating!" Jack exclaimed.

Now he had the hook to keep the children attentive. Thomas stopped long enough to sulk, if not listen. Jack's voice grew warm and bright as he built upon the story, the latest dream that he knew had surely come from the moon and his attentive listening. He told the children the story of how Nicholas Saint North was a vicious nomad who roamed the earth in search of gold and jewels. But when the children of a town were threatened by an evil monster, North's true colors were shone and he pulled out his sword, driving off the threat for good.

Edward Fuerst took the pipe out of his mouth and looked towards the circle of children. Their faces were turned up at Jack and they were all shining with delight, enthralled by his story.

"That's how he came to live in the town and built a workshop where he creates all of your toys and gifts," Jack concluded. "So whenever you think he's just a jolly old man, you'd better think twice. Because Saint Nicholas is a lot smarter, braver, and stronger than you think he is."

"And you know what?" Jack asked the children. They all shook their heads, hanging on every word.

"You're all much stronger than you think you are," he said at last, ending on a soft gentle tone.

He was not prepared for the thundering applause that followed, or for his father to come over and ruffle his hair affectionately. Reverend Smith also credited Jack on his story and gave him a shiny apple.

Somewhere else in the world, children may have cringed at the howl of the wolf and the shriek of the wind on All Hallow's Eve. But not in Burgess that night.

A-A-A

Stay, season of calm love and soulful snows!  
There is a subtle sweetness in the sun,  
The ripples on the stream's breast gaily run,  
The wind more boisterously by me blows,  
And each succeeding day now longer grows.

-To Winter, Claude McKay

It was a lovely day to be outside. The sun was so warm that you didn't think it was winter and so bright that even the bare trees took on a stark beauty.

Four inches separated Jack from death.

All three children wanted to go ice skating but it was James' turn to be stuck in bed. Fortunately, it was just a head cold. Mary Fuerst was still unsure if it was safe enough but when your children are good and have gotten skates for Christmas, it is hard to keep them pinned down. Especially when one of your children is called Jack and is fast as a will 'o the wisp.

"Very well, you may go. But be careful," Mary cautioned her children. She made sure Katherine had put on her thickest woolen dress to be certain not to catch cold.

And to Jack she added, "You're responsible for your sister. It's your job to look out for her."

"I will," he promised with a cheery wink.

No sooner had Jack and Katherine gone out to play then the reverend came in for a visit. Mary offered him a chair and a cup of herbal brew.

"John seems to be doing well," he said politely.

"He still gets into scrapes at times but he is a good brother," Mary confessed. Her needle pulled in and out of the shirt she was sewing for Jack. "If there's one thing I will not have in this household is a selfish soul."

"Ah yes, a generous heart is indeed gracious in the eyes of the Lord," said the reverend. He had to refrain from reciting too many proverbs in front of Jack lest the boy start snoring. "But tell me, does Edward bring in the animals so early in the morning?"

"He says this warm break in the weather won't last forever."

"It must be the blood of the Rhineland provinces flowing through his veins," suggested the reverend. "That's what I presume from a family name that traces back to Germanic princes."

Mary laughed. "I don't think we're considered royalty," she insisted. "But Edward and the boys certainly know how to brace the cold without fear and that's a blessing in itself."

Reverend Smith was about to quote the Scriptures when he saw a cloud come over Mary's face. She lay down her sewing needle and stood up.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Mary felt a cold shudder run through her. Not the chill of ice or snow but something else, something dark and dangerous. A moment ago she was sure there had been the sound of two children on the frozen pond. Now there was only one.

It takes a moment for four inches of ice to crack.

Katherine burst through the door, face streaming with tears. "MAMA!" she screamed in terror.

Mary Fuerst gathered up her skirts and raced out the door, faster than Katherine, faster than Reverend Smith, flying towards the pond. Her darkest fear had been confirmed when she saw the hole in the ice.

Four inches to death.

A-A-A

There was not a dry eye at the funeral. The children looked woeful, their parents were stunned, and the reverend hoped he would have the strength to read his sermon at the eulogy.

But to think of a lad so young, so vibrant and strong, seized by the forces of winter, was unbearable. And so Reverend Smith spoke of young Jack's love of life, his energy, and the way he could make children laugh. He had truly been a blessing to their community. For a moment, he thought they would bear the next hour in the room together in prayer.

Then James started bawling when he saw the empty coffin. "You can't bury him! He's not dead!" the boy cried out. Edward had to pick his son up and carry him out of the room. James was still wailing on the way out and Katherine followed in hysterical shrieks.

"Jack's not dead, you hear me? Noooo! Jack, come back! Come baaack!" they howled together.

The reverend closed his Bible and looked at the people in the pews. "Perhaps we should spend the rest of the day in quiet reflection and meditation," he said at last.

Now back in his study, the man allowed his feelings to surface. He removed his glasses and wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. Why, he asked God, did such a thing come to happen?

A thumping sound at the door broke his thoughts. It was not the accustomed rap of knuckles; this was deeper and stronger. Curiously, Reverend Smith went to the door and opened it.

Little Hill stood there on the threshold, flanked by three other men.

For a moment, nobody said anything. Then Little Hill spoke first.

"The boy named Jack is gone."

The reverend opened his mouth. Then he closed it and nodded his head.

"How did you know?" he asked.

"He did not come to us as he has come before."

"Jack...went to your village?"

"Many times."

"For how long?"

"Two moons."

"Why?"

The man's solemn dark eyes gazed at the reverend. "Did he need a reason?"

Now the reverend looked at the Indian and for the first time in his life, realized that Jack must have seen something in these people that he had not paid attention to. Beyond the reverend's pale complexion and large glasses, beyond Little Hill's deerskin boots and face paint, there was something in these men that Jack understood. He had looked into their souls and found them to be kindred people.

Little Hill shut his eyes. "But his spirit lingers here."

"W-what?"

"That is not good. He should pass on into the next world. But he is still here."

"I know," the reverend said quietly. "We also believe in another world after a person passes on."

There was silence for a moment.

"I am sorry," said Little Hill. "Sorry for your loss."

He motioned to his companions who lowered their bundles of animal furs and dried meat. The reverend starred at the bounty in awe.

"You and your people will lack for nothing this winter," said Little Hill. "I promise it."

Never before would Reverend Smith accept anything he considered charity unless it was for a desperate reason. His pride kept him from doing so. But now the gesture was the only medicine that could soothe a wounded soul that could not bear the thought of a child who had drowned in the pond.

So he offered his hand to Little Hill and the Indian accepted it in a firm dry clasp.

And though the people of Burgess and the people of the Lenape all mourned for Jack Fuerst, they did not know that his life was but a driven leaf that would blow and move on with the wind.

A-A-A

"_Thus spake he, and that moment felt endued_

_With power to dream deliciously; so wound_

_Through a dim passage, searching till he found_

_The smoothest mossy bed and deepest."_

_-Endymion _by John Keats

A-A-A

Cool. Dark. Spacious. So different from the warm cramped feelings from before.

Before…before what? Before this? Before thick, deep water?

He felt water above him and water beneath him. He was drifting slowly through it, limbs floating carelessly through his dream-like state. Was he alone? No, someone was watching him from above. A large disc, full and perfect, was beaming down at him. The twinge of fear within him was replaced with curiosity and he dared to ask the question.

"Who, who are you?"

_I am the Man in the Moon. And you are a ripple upon the sea._

"Am I dead?"

_You are in between worlds. But you will not remain this way for long._

"What do you want with me?"

_I have summoned you to take up the Deep Magic that fills this world and to serve the people in it._

"Why me?"

_I have sent thousands of moonbeams down to earth for children to hear. You chose to listen to my calling. Now I chose you to become a Guardian._

"That sounds wonderful."

_It can be wonderful indeed. But you will be tried and tested make certain that you are up to the task._

"How?"

_You must learn to bear the Deep Magic. You must learn to trust other Guardians. And you will be tested with years of loneliness before facing your greatest fears and horrors. _

"That does not sound so wonderful to me."

_You need not fear it. I will give you powers beyond your greatest imagination. You will do things that once seemed impossible. You may even be able to fly along the stars._

"But what if I fail?"

_You will never be given a test that you cannot pass._

The Deep Magic was sent by the Man in the Moon and flowed from the celestial sphere into the frozen pond.

It wrapped itself around the young body, driving off Death, telling Death that it was not yet time to take this boy. It streamed into his veins, cooling his blood. It washed away the brown in his hair and turned it silvery white with age. Eyes became the brightest blue of the sky. Limbs became lighter, quicker, and faster. There was one last thing for the Man in the Moon to do in order to complete the transformation. It was painful, but nevertheless necessary.

_I must take your memories from you._

Magic washed into his mind, wiping out everything just as the river carried autumn leaves out to the sea. No more James and Katherine; no more Lenape or Christmas. No more Jack Fuerst. All that remained was a mind that was pure and blank as freshly-fallen snow.

When the transformation was complete, the Man in the Moon summoned him forth. The ice did not crack painfully when the boy broke through but crumbled away softly. It lifted him into the air, soothing and caressing him with silvery moonlight. He opened his eyes and breathed out, curious and confused, and a bit frightened, at the new world around him.

After all, he was but a newborn babe.

The moon gently set him back down as easily as drawing the tide back in. And then the Man in the Moon gave him his new name.

_Do not be afraid, Jack Frost. I am with you._

He would find the remains of the stick on the pond and he would find ice and snowflakes curling at his fingertips. Flying would be delightful; the loneliness would not. But just like a will 'o the wisp, Jack Frost could not stay in one place for long. As soon as a fresh wind breathed through the trees, he would ride upon it and be carried off to a new exciting place.

A shining laugh filled the winter sky. The Man in the Moon heard it and smiled. After all, this wasn't the end at all, but the beginning of an extraordinary adventure for the boy who would one day become the Guardian of Fun, Jack Frost.

_I will be correspondent to command,  
And do my spriting gently._

-Ariel, Scene ii, the Tempest

END


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